Deception
by FreeCyberBird
Summary: Three years after the hospital incident, John H. Watson has been lost. He's nowhere to be seen, or found, and not even he himself can find him. "I just wanted to see him again, to thank him. I just wanted to tell him I believed." [ANGST WARNING] [Minor JohnLock]
1. Deception

**Deception**

* * *

It's been three years, but honestly, it feels like a lifetime.

I hardly remember those days when I was still me.

When I was still John Hamish Watson, only friend, and flatmate to…Well… The world's only consulting detective.

When I was still an army Doctor, with a psychosomatic limp straight out of the Afghanistan war.

When I was still fully here, right in the mind, and body.

Has it _really_ been three years?

I remember I once told Sherlock that I was a soldier, back then, when we got into a quick row outside of Irene Adler's flat. Now though, I'm no soldier at all, but I'm fighting a type of war. I am fighting me.

I look down, and I glance around, but everything's blurred out. Shutting my eyes tightly, thinking it would help focus my vision, I shake my head. My hand tighten grasp on the cool object in my hand.

_I am John Watson._

I drop the object, and it hits the floor silently.

_I am John Watson._

I sit on the wet ground.

_"__**I am John Watson," **_I say aloud to no one really but myself.

I reach to pick up the object on the floor again, and examine it.

I don't know what I expected.

Maybe to see a reflection of sane man's eyes.

Maybe I believed to see John Watson staring back at me.

Instead though, I see the liquid on the knife, and my heart drops to my toes, and then picks up pace almost instantly.

" Oh…God." My voice shakes, as I whisper the words, as it dims to me.

As if the object were hot enough to melt metal, I throw it as quickly as I can against the wall, and it simply rebounds off it back to the floor.

I try scooting away, but the pain suddenly registers itself to my body, and I gasp.

What have I…done?

My insides feel as twisted as a knotted rope, and my muscles convulse, and prepare for what's to come.

I spew whatever I had last to eat, and in the midst, I begin coughing.

Perfectly, thick, crimson-like blood comes out my mouth.

Blood so alike, that once came out of a Man I once knew. That flatmate I once had.

I wipe away away the blood on the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, and think of that bloody man.

I try reaching for a couch, or any type of material to stop the bleeding, but the pain cracks like a whip, and quickly, I'm stuck back on the floor, in fetal position.

After the wave of pain, I try again, but my actions are slower, sluggish, and I try, and I try, but I'm just here. On the floor, surrounded in my own puddle of death.

Somewhere along the lines, my thoughts come loose from a string, and I stop thinking coherently at all. Coughing, and choking become one. I can't really differentiate from the two anymore.

What have I done?

Oh…God.

Oh, God No.

...

...

I just wanted to see him again.

I just wanted to tell him that I believed.

That I believe.

...

…I guess I'll be meeting him soon enough now, anyways.


	2. Author's Note

**Quick Author's Note!**

* * *

I'm thinking of expanding on the idea, but I'm not too sure.

Just leave a comment, or PM me if you'd like more, or if you believe it should stay finished.

Anyways, thank-you for taking time, and reading this!


	3. Looking Down

**_LOOKING DOWN_**

* * *

_Distant shouts ring through my ears, and everything appears to be a bid out-of-focus. _

_I'm dazed, and distant, but I'm near, and still here._

_I'm observing what's going on, but not through my own eyes._

_Somehow, I'm looking down from above, and watching. But, pushing past my cotton-balled head, I cross this out logical. _

_'Looking down at my own body?' The near thought seems impossible. _

_It's only then, that I begin to notice black spots are encompassing my vision._

_ 'Huh,' dully, I note it, more interested in seeing myself on a gurney. A quiet alarm goes off in my head, reminding me that I've seen something like this before… But, my mind quickly rattles on about other, thoughtless things._

_Like… Harriet. _

_I haven't talked to her lately. Perhaps her drinking habits aren't as bad anymore. _

_And… Clyde! Ah… That dog I had once, in primary school. He was a wonderful creature; Too bad he died. _

_Such a sad thing…Death. Tragic. _

_Clyde. He was truly a wonderful hound. A wonderful companion. _

_As I think about my past memories, such as my first kiss, or the time Papa brought me to the zoo, I look at myself again._

_I don't look well….I look death._

_Quite like Clyde…Quite like…_

_At that exact moment, the fog in my brain instantly gets cleared up, and I can think. _

_I have enough intelligence to coherently understand that seeing me in the first place wasn't normal._

_I also notice by now, my vision has completely gone, and it's all black, like the lights are out. _

_I curse. I'm a Doctor. I knew what was happening. _

_ I'm about to pass out…I'm about to…_

**xXxX**

"He was about to die." On cue, an audible gasp leaves a woman's lips, as she puts her hands over her mouth in disbelief.

"It's understandable that you're in shock. If it makes you feel any better, these things happen all the time, and most don't come out alive."

The Doctor next to her lets out a shaky breath, trying to brighten the mood. Although, he can already feel it in the air; once again, his condolences don't help. A proven fact, he thinks, is that his helping usually caused more disaster.

So, the Doctor shakes his head, gives up on the act, and continues, "We've given him two blood transfusions, and everything appears stable. We've only to observe, and watch him closely now, Mrs. Hudson."

At this news, the woman, now identified as Mrs. Hudson, slowly removes her hands from her mouth. She lets out a relieved breath she'd been holding, and exclaims, "Thank God, he's going to be alright!"

After a few silent moments pass, she continues speaking. "You know…He once was my tenant. Roomed with Sherlock Holmes, he did."

The Doctor's eyebrows rise in awe, unexpectedly shocked by the news. "It's a miracle that he survived then!"

A confused Mrs. Hudson, unsure to where the comment came from asks, "Why's that?"

Giving Mrs. Hudson an incredulous look back, the Doctor replies, "You know… I couldn't bear to imagine what rooming with that serial killer must've been like…Dangerous, for starters. He must be a survivor!"

In response, Mrs. Hudson grows quickly agitated with the Doctor, and is tempted to slap him for the rude comment. _'He's been dead for years… Why bring this up?'_ Bitterly, she thinks.

Contrasted to her thoughts though, she keeps her voice steady. "Well, I couldn't imagine, rooming with a serial killer, and all."

She smiles cheerily, with an ominous glint in her eyes. She was pondering something of long ago, something about her Husband. Her smile grows slowly wider, and this makes the Doctor fidget, and uncomfortable.

It's not until the silence comes between them again that Mrs. Hudson shakes out of her reverie, and pushily tells him, "Can't you leave me in some privacy?"

The doctor nods, realizing the intrusion he posed, and mutters, "Yes, yes, I have... Uh, other things to attend to anyways. Goodbye." And, he leaves.

Mrs. Hudson never replies back. She only looks at the man on the bed worriedly, praying for him to get better.

"Oh, John. Whatever did you do?"

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please comment if you liked this chapter, disliked it, if it's confusing, etc!**

**Also, I don't really trust in my abilities to describe at the moment, so do tell me if I need to take more time! **

**Once, again… Thank-you!**


	4. John's Goodbye: Part 1

**John's Goodbye: Part 1**

* * *

It's raining outside again. Not meaning to, a sad sigh escapes my lips.

I've been hoping for the weather to change, but it hasn't been any different since I woke up. It's just the constant raindrops pattering outside on the windows. And just the same darkness left in my hospital room.

Although, can't say that I expected much from the weather. After all, this is London. The sun doesn't exist here.

My eyes slowly turn away from the window, to stare at the TV screen. It was on—only so the room wouldn't get too quiet. I notice that a sitcom's playing, and watching some of it, the commercial break finally comes on. After a few minutes of being semi-entranced by the commercials, one specifically comes on about a new car. The ad-salesman boasts something ridiculously persuasive about buying the car, and it's then that I decided I was done with any sort of electronics for the day.

I turn it off, and take notice of the situation I was in.

I'm sitting upright on a hospital bed, with the white, scratchy sheets pooled up to my hip. The air is cold, icily so, that I contemplate for a moment if I should wrap the blankets around my shoulders to warm me up. I try tugging on the thing, to follow up with the plan to cover my shoulders, but I notice that they're tucked under the bed. The blankets, at farthest, only reach to my chest, and this annoys me. I sigh again, shivering from the cold.

Noticing that I still had the TV remote in hand, I reach to the right to put it on the small side table. Drool was streaking out the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away, and pause for a second, and continue again; quickly finding sharp humor in it.

I just came back from the psychiatric ward, on the fourth floor of this hospital. Being around the patients on that floor for at least a week—I must've naturally adopted their habits. My appearance must scream psych patient too; with the uniform unkempt hair, and eyes dulled out, from the medicines.

I let out a laugh.

I may not be on that fourth floor anymore, but I'm still being watched like I was. Oh, sure. My assignment nurse comes in every half-hour, pestering if I'm alright—checking up to see if I was still alive. Occasionally, she hands me a cup filled with pills. I don't resist taking them. They dull my thoughts, and make me seem like I'm somewhere else. I like them. They make me...not feel.

Although even with the pills, I can't help but feel agitated.

For the first few times my nurse came into the room, I tried expressing some kindness, telling her that I was okay. But after the plethora time of her running inside my room, the same cheerful smile stuck on her face, it got too much. I eventually stopped trying to tell her that _I am okay. _

She must've finally gotten the message, and stopped giving me that plastic smile. Only a shadow of it left behind, I can tell she gave up too. She only comes in to hand me the medicine, and sometimes to check my blood pressure. Then, she probably goes off to tend to her other patients.

I don't register the guilt that pokes at me for being rude to the nurse, though. Since being checked into this hospital, I've been uncomfortable. _I _should be the doctor, and the one helping out. I shouldn't be here, being the patient, on this bed with the itchy sheets. It made me extremely uncomfortable. I didn't particularly enjoy the switch of roles.

Frustrated with the hospital, myself, everything, a scream touches the back of my lips. I bite it back. I know there isn't any avoiding it.

_After all,_ I was the one who committed suicide. Being a doctor myself, I knew how the procedure of patients like me went.

The procedure was the same as in the army.

In the army, some men couldn't take the pressure of war, and offed themselves. If anyone was caught trying to do this, then they'd be immediately be sent to the hospital wing, be treated, then sent to the psych ward. They'd be under hospital arrest for a week. I remember I treated some suicide-attempt patients, but I never talked to them much. What happened to them didn't catch interest. All I wanted to do is save them.

Generally, anything that had to do with suicide was too dangerous to tread and talk about in the army. For those who were successful with their plans to quit life, nobody talked about them, nor did anybody judge them. After all, everyone in the army could understand their pain. The pressure they felt. The insanity.

I knew I understood it perfectly. I was a soldier. I fought to save lives. I fought to save the lives of those who tried to off themselves, or those who were injured. I fought for those injured in battle. Sometimes, my patients couldn't be saved, and that's part of the horror. Part of the insanity.

Even though it was some kind of taboo in the army, people still thought about it. Secretly, all soldiers felt betrayed when their comrades left by means of killing themselves.

After all, how can those soldiers, who quit, be given a true soldier's memorial? How can they be recognized for their bravery?

To most…They couldn't. Yes. Those who let themselves die were given a soldier's memorial, but they weren't given the honor.

It wasn't fair if they committed suicide. It wasn't fair that they left.

So, thinking about that a bit, a solid conclusion pops into my head.

My eyes widen, like an owl's, and all air is stolen from me. I feel as if ten miles away, not seeing the room. Instead, I have blurred vision from the collective moisture starting to build up in my eyes. There are tears threatening to leave, and I make it mission for them not to. I wipe them away quickly, so they never get the chance to streak down my cheeks in the first place.

I've made a mistake.

I've lost my own war.

I wasn't fair.

….

* * *

**_Coming Up Next - John's Goodbye: Part 2_**

**_A/U: If it's not obvious yet, I've had trouble writing this chapter. I dunno. It didn't really come to me as naturally as I would've liked. Anywho, all I have to do is edit Part 2, so it'll be up soon!_**

**_…._**

**_It'll be much appreciated if you _****_leave a review!_**

**_Love it, hate it, perhaps can you grade it? I'd very much like some critique, too._**


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